Chapter 42
Chapter
Forty-Two
Loren stared out over the sea, the spring breeze tugging at his coat, carrying with it the faint tang of salt and woodsmoke. A pulse of awareness reached him through the bond, the brush of Araya’s mind against his kindling a warm glow in his chest.
They’d made it to the temple. They were safe.
He didn’t grasp at her as she pulled back, her mind brushing against his in a last, lingering touch.
They had both agreed. There was no room for distraction today—not with the New Dominion at their doorstep.
But it still felt like he’d cut off a part of his own body to let her go, the bond stretched thin and tight between them.
But the further she was from here—from him—the safer she would be.
Far below, the first line of defense arrayed itself along the rocky beach—fae from every walk of life clutching makeshift weapons.
Above them, archers spread out along the edge of the cliff, bows half-raised as they watched the horizon with unfaltering intensity, eyes glued to the five black-sailed ships that lingered just out of range.
“Shouldn’t there be six?” Eloria asked, pulling his attention.
She’d traded silk dresses and slippers for a padded tunic and breeches, topped with light, supple armor that allowed her to move freely without sacrificing protection.
Her usual circlet was gone. In its place, her raven-black hair had been braided back and coiled into an intricate bun, tucked neatly beneath the helmet that protected her head and face.
“The scouts suspect it was lost in the crossing to what remains of the Veil,” Cormac answered. “We should strike now—push them back to sea before they ever get the chance to set foot on our soil.”
“They’ve been on our soil for centuries,” Loren said. “Did they find remnants of the ship? Debris? Survivors?”
Cormac scoffed.
“The Veil doesn’t leave survivors, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice clipped and already edged with disdain. “You’re wasting valuable time.”
“We don’t move without understanding why they’re stalling,” Loren snapped. The shadows around his boots rippled faintly, echoing his caution. “The ship might have been lost in the crossing—or it could be holding back. Waiting for something.”
“Or maybe they’re hoping we stand here debating while they take our weakest point,” Cormac snapped. He took a step closer, his voice rising. “Why are you stalling, Your Majesty? Afraid to face them on the field after spending twenty-five years as their prisoner?”
“Cormac—” Eloria hissed, her voice sharp with warning.
But the damage was already done. Cormac’s words had carried, the nearest archers along the cliffside shifting and murmuring among themselves.
“They’re waiting because they know you’re no threat to them,” Cormac spat.
“A broken prince and his halfblood queen. She ran the first chance she got. She’s an insult to your mother’s memory, Your Majesty.
” He looked to Eloria, his face mottled with rage.
“It should have been you, Princess,” he said, his voice ringing out in the still morning air.
“You’re the one who never abandoned your duty. Not once.”
The words echoed like a challenge—and for a moment, Loren could almost see it.
The crown on her brow. The relief in the faces of the old guard.
A future untouched by shadows or scandal.
The Goddess knew, he would have chosen her—but the fae didn’t choose their kings and queens.
Dara’el did. And that cold, ancient will had bound him to this crown long before anyone had ever guessed what threat the humans would pose to them.
All he could do now was strive to be worthy of it.
And as for Araya—Loren’s jaw clenched.
“Speak of my queen like that again, Commander,” he said, his soft words carrying easily through the poised silence. “It will be the last insult to leave your lips.” The shadows hissed, a cool prickle racing up Loren’s spine as they rose along his back, spreading behind him like dark wings.
Cormac blanched, stepping back instinctively.
The nearest archers stared openly now, their bows forgotten in slack hands as everyone held their breath—waiting to see if their new king was about to execute their commander.
Only the blast of horns from the lookouts shattered the moment, their low, mournful cry echoing across the cliffs in a frantic call to arms.
The ships were moving.
Cormac turned without another word, shoulders stiff. He stalked down the slope toward his forces without looking back.
Eloria stared after him, hissing out a breath between her teeth. Half-formed illusions played at her fingertips, as restless as his own shadows.
“That was treason,” she said, fury barely leashed behind every word. “He’ll have to be removed from the Small Council—I know Thorne’s a Healer, but his father was commander at arms. At least he’d be loyal—”
Loren just shook his head, his gaze fixed on the black sails billowing in the wind as the New Dominion’s ships edged ever closer. On the beach below, fae scrambled to ready their lines, the scrape of steel and shouted orders rising like a second wind behind the sound of the horns.
“One battle at a time,” Loren said. “Let’s survive this one first.”
The words had barely left his mouth when the first explosion shattered the morning.
A thundercrack split the sky—not lightning, but siege fire, arcing from the Dominion ships in streaks of molten green. Runes ignited along their hulls as spellcasters unleashed destruction, the wind turning acrid with the stench of burning magic.
Release us, Lorendrael, the shadows hissed. Their voices shifted and echoed, layering on top of one another to speak as one. Let us do our duty.
The last time they’d faced battle like this, they had slaughtered everyone—friend and foe, fae and human. They’d shown him themselves—a battlefield engulfed in darkness, consuming fae and human alike. His father, falling to his knees amid the carnage—
Not this time, they whispered into his ears. Never again, Lorendrael. We swear it.
Loren exhaled slowly. His fingers curled into fists at his side. They had to trust each other—or everything that had happened would be for nothing.
“Go,” he said, releasing his hold on them.
The shadows burst forward around him, tearing down the cliffside.
Ribbons of darkness slithered across the sand, racing past startled fae to leap across the waves.
One wrapped itself around the leading landing craft, the screams of men rising on the air as wood splintered, spilling them into the waves.
Others struck like snakes, dragging spellcasters beneath the waves before their incantations could leave their lips.
From the mist, a sixth ship appeared—then a seventh.
Not New Dominion vessels, but silver-hulled fae ships, their sails shining white in the morning sun.
They cut across the water, sleek and fast, closing in on the New Dominion ships as the heavier vessels struggled to turn and engage.
One tried to pivot too sharply, striking its hull on the skeleton of a hidden reef with a shriek of shearing wood.
A cheer went up from the fae on the beach, loud enough to carry over the shouts.
The ships weren’t real. Neither were the fae soldiers swarming onto the decks of the ships, their armor gleaming as they engaged the enemy.
Eloria stood above it all, her fingers twitching as she stared down with unblinking eyes, weaving her tapestry of illusion into a force the fae could only have dreamed of gathering.
The shadows hissed their approval, their voices carried to him on the wind as they wreaked havoc on soldiers scrambling to battle foes who didn’t exist.
And still Eloria kept weaving.
Fae warriors leapt from vessel to vessel, luring New Dominion soldiers into the clutches of the shadows.
One panicked mage raised his hand, throwing power at a fae soldier only to strike his commander directly in the back.
The man crumpled, immediately swallowed by the shadows as they swarmed eagerly forward into the gap Eloria had created for them.
They were winning.
Loren felt it—the shift in the tide, the Dominion forces flailing, illusions twisting their senses, shadows unraveling their formations. For a single heartbeat, they had a chance.
And then Araya’s terror shattered the wall around his mind, coursing through their fragile bond like wildfire.
Loren gasped, pain lancing through his knees as they struck the rocky ground.
She was so far away—the bond should’ve been muted and distant, but her fear lanced down his spine like lightning, filling his mouth with ash.
Across the battlefield, his shadows faltered.
One missed its mark, letting the New Dominion soldier scramble away unscathed.
Another curled in place, whipping around as if to stare at him.
Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
“What is it?” Eloria demanded, her voice tight as she split her focus between him and her illusions. Her fingers twitched, sweat beading on her forehead and soaking the collar of her tunic. “Are you hurt?”
“Not me,” Loren managed, shoving back to his feet. “Araya.”
Eloria’s eyes flew to him, her own illusions wavering for a heartbeat before she fixed her grim stare back on the battle in front of her. “Go to her.”
Loren shook his head, his hands curling into fists. The shadows howled, a wordless cry of rage and grief that echoed his borrowed memory of a much different battlefield. But they didn’t race back to him. They knew too.
“I can’t,” Loren said, his voice hoarse as the world swam before his eyes. “If I leave now, we lose too many. Even if we survive today, we won’t survive what comes next. Not if they tear through us like this.”
But the truth did nothing to dull the screaming pain in his chest. The shadows lashed out, wild and furious as they tore through everything in their path.
Their clean precision and careful aim was nothing but a memory, both of them torn between the undeniable urge to protect her and the inescapable mandate to protect their people.
She wasn’t defenseless. She’d gotten better at wielding her power—especially under duress. Veria was with her, all the chaperones—even Eryn would take up arms to defend them, if necessary.
The shadows only snarled in answer, past the point of words. He felt it too—burning in the deep place where his magic lived, older than language, older than logic. Araya was afraid. In danger. And he wasn’t there.
His mother had died like that. Hundreds of miles from the mate who would have done anything to save her. She’d died alone, surrounded by enemies, leaving him with only her bones to grieve over.
Loren fought with everything he had. Striking and reaching with the shadows, his power moving as one with them.
Every blow pounded in his blood, driving him forward.
Another landing boat capsized under a wave of darkness.
A soldier almost made it to the beach, only to be dragged screaming back into the waves.
Someone grabbed him, their hands digging into his arms. Loren snarled, the shadows that had stayed back with him rearing up like striking snakes before he recognized his sister—her helmet long gone and her braid half fallen out of its knot at the back of her neck.
“It’s over,” she said, shaking him slightly. “Loren, it’s over. They’re pulling back out of range.”
Her words pierced the fog clouding his mind, making their way through the raw terror consuming him. He hadn’t even realized the ships were retreating, his shadows stretching to their limits as they reached greedily for the endless supply of human soldiers the Arcanum had sent to feed them.
But they were. And that meant—
Eloria nodded, squeezing his arm again before stepping back.
“Go,” she said. “Go get her, Loren.”
Loren didn’t need to be told twice. He turned and ran, Araya’s hot terror throbbing in his veins.